I’m having issues with gravity this weekend. Last night after putting Benjamin to bed, I was broiling salmon and tidying the kitchen in preparation for a romantic Friday supper with my husband. Venturing outside in the rain to toss the recycling, my feet shot out from under me on the top step and went flying over my head, and I splatted unceremoniously on the bottom step on my left hip. As I mewled and cried and crawled around in the mud, assessing the state of my aching body and feeling betrayed by the universe, some douche on his bike rode by, looked at me, and kept right on going. I wished him and his giant wiener-head great ill.
There is a clear path of yard debris from the glass door to the oven, where I dragged myself in to take dinner out of the oven and to apply ice my throbbing haunch. It is an intriguing rainbow of ghastly colors this morning, like a storm cloud on my butt. Call me General Blackass of the Sixth Klutz Infantry. There is also a huge pile of plastic trash by our steps, so we are tacky as well as crippled.
I have run into the wall twice today, thrown Simons’ breakfast at him by accident, had my little toe crushed by a fat baby, and went ice skating across the living room on one Benjamin’s little cars. Simons asked me if I wanted to come on a walk, and I replied that I’d better not. Thanks very much, I think I will stay safely indoors, baking baguettes and writing hideously overdue thank you notes, and making baby food…although I am considering what bloodthirsty revenge my food processor could potentially wreak on me. Maybe tea and a smutty novel?